


Broken

by ArtisticRainey



Series: Unlucky Series [2]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Gen, Swearing, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/pseuds/ArtisticRainey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interlude from 'Unlucky.' John can't sleep and everything is starting to get to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

A stream of silver light filtered through the crack in the curtain. The clock had long since blinked 3am. Still John lay on his back, staring up at the sloping ceiling. It had been like this for nearly a week.  
  
Everyone was being helpful. There were polite knocks on his door and cheerful tones penetrated the wooden barrier. Was he okay? Did he need anything? Remember, they were all there for him. John closed his eyes. Of course they were. They were his family. The problem was, John wasn't convinced that _he_ was really there anymore. After the accident, something had been taken away that could never be replaced. He was no longer whole.

 

No longer himself.

  
He thrust the covers off and wrenched himself upright using the mobility grip that hung like a crane over his bed. It was pathetic. It was understandable. Yet he still hated the way he felt. A crushing sense of failure started at the tips of the toes he could no longer move; day by day it was creeping further up his body. _You're broken_ , an insidious voice hissed.

 

_No, not broken_ , the other side of the argument said. _Just different._

 

_No. Broken_.

 

John grabbed his banana board and slid from bed to wheelchair. He grabbed the push rings so hard his knuckles blanched as he propelled himself out onto the landing, towards the elevator. The poor button didn't deserve the beating it got. He had never used the elevator before this happened. It had been installed more with Grandma in mind, thinking further down the line to when her body would naturally start to fail. It wasn't supposed to be for a young man in the prime of his life, once whole and now...broken. He swung himself around to face the doors, not willing to look himself in the eye. The metallic whir and clunk of the elevator sounded his descent and he pushed his way out into the lounge.

 

A grey veil had fallen over the interior. Colours were muted and the depths of corners and crevices yawned like black mouths. John wheeled himself over to the sunken central section. His fingers gripped tighter. Even something as simple as getting to the couch had become an ordeal. There was no ramp - not yet, anyway; Scott had plans - and crutches were a bit beyond him at the moment.

 

_Eventually you may regain enough strength to use crutches instead of the chair_ , his physiotherapist had said. _However, be aware that it will take a lot of time and effort_.

 

John's snort was obnoxious in the silence. Time was something he had an endless supply of now. There was no way he could go back to Five. He snorted again; this time it was tinged with disdain. Five seemed to be a million light-years away. How do you make a space station disabled-friendly? He couldn't even get down to the couch without assistance, never mind being able to survive on his own in geostationary orbit.

 

Somehow that was one of the hardest parts of this whole mess. Solitary by nature, John enjoyed the isolation of duty on Five. Now that he was stuck on the island, privacy was hard to come by. He let the push bars slide through his hands as he approached the expanse of glass that looked out onto the pool and the ocean beyond. There was no moon. There were no stars. There was just darkness.

 

Nothing. _Broken_.

 

The hum of the air-con unit was suddenly unbearably loud and John swung himself around - only to come face-to-abdomen with someone. He looked up and blinked through the darkness. It was Virgil.

 

"Hey," his brother said.

 

"Hey."

 

That was about all he could say.

 

"What are you doing down here at this hour?"

 

As his eyes adjusted, John could see more of Virgil's face. He could see the creases at the edge of his mouth, that tell-tale sign of a hidden frown, the stiff tilt of his neck as he held himself in place, not knowing what to do, but worst of all, John could see the distinct glint of _discomfort_ in his eyes.

 

And that blew it.

 

"Since when did I need to justify my actions to you?"

 

John felt himself fade away as a malevolence conquered his body. He was floating, like he did on Five, free as a bird, watching this thing in his skin tear his brother to shreds. Virgil didn't even get the chance to utter a syllable.

 

"Since when did I need to justify anything to any of you? Everyone is so damned concerned with how I'm doing. Am I okay? Do I need anything? Do I want anything? Well, yes, actually, I do. I want my fucking legs back. Can you bring them back, Virgil? Can you? _Can you_? No, because I'm fucking  _broken_!"

 

Then he was back inside and the tsunami of emotion hit. For a painful moment he was silent, looking nowhere but into the round pools of his brother's eyes. No longer were they filled with discomfort; they were full of compassion. He broke again.

 

As if someone had clipped his wings, he collapsed forwards, forehead on knees, and wept. Undignified sobs wracked his body as months of fury and desolation escaped from their carefully concealed tomb.

 

"I just- I don't-"

 

Everything he tried to say was left unfinished as remorse and guilt and grief thickened his tongue. Remorse for the way he tore strips from his brother when he had only been trying to help. Guilt for wallowing in self-pity and pretending he wasn't. Grief for himself because, in truth, it felt like part of him had died.

 

When Virgil knelt in front of his chair and gently pulled his brother upright, John didn't resist. Shame burned like acid down his cheeks and when Virg wrapped his arms around him, John fell into the embrace.

 

"I'm so proud of you," Virgil said. His breath was hot on John's ear. "You've worked so damned hard to recover, to put yourself back together. I don't know how you can do it, day after day. I don't think I could."

 

He gave John one final squeeze before pulling back. John's chin immediately dropped but Virgil tilted it back up. Now his eyes were steely and serious.

 

"You are not broken, Johnny. Far from it. If nothing else, you're stronger than you've ever been."

 

John closed his eyes.

 

"I don't feel strong, Virg. I feel weak as water and like I'll never be strong again."

 

"I know. It'll take a while but eventually you'll feel it."

 

John opened his eyes again. His cheeks burned and his eyes stung. He sniffed and wiped his nose; a thick string of goo came away with his hand. Without warning, a deep chortle erupted from his throat and within seconds the brothers were laughing and gasping for breath.

 

"Oh god, I needed that," John wheezed.

 

"Me too," Virgil said. "Now, how about we have some 3.30am pancakes? I can even make a smiley face of syrup for you and everything."

 

John rolled his eyes but his smile didn't slip.

 

"You know, I think I'll take you up on that offer."

 

And as they made their way towards the elevator, the weight of grief started to lift a little more.

 

Its grip had been broken.


End file.
